Chronicles of the Single Man, Episode 13: The Opposite of Hot Dogs and Hallways

For a few (somewhat obvious) reasons, I’ve found a decent amount of success on St. Patty’s Day. Of course, by ‘decent amount’, I’m referring to three singular instances and by ‘success’ I’m referring to sexual intercourse with women.

In my life, I’ve picked up (maybe) 2 or 3 random girls at bars. It’s just never been something I’m good at. Combination of my main weapon being a sense of humor (sarcastic one, at that) which is negated at a loud bar and my crushing lack of self-confidence in that arena, and you can see why that number is so embarrassingly low.

Once (or twice, depending on where you live) a year, there’s a day in the social calendar where we’re allowed (nay, encouraged) to start drinking before noon*. Hard alcohol shots, green beer, and lots of Bud Light. That day, of course, is St. Patty’s Day. Where I live, in Hoboken, I have the good fortune of being able to celebrate the day twice… once a few weeks early in my own town and then nearer the actual holiday in New York City.

Since moving to Hoboken, I’ve only really done the one in town. I’m not that cool, don’t have enough friends. One is, sadly, enough.

Two years ago (meaning, 2013), a friend suggested I come to the city with them for New York’s version of the Irish holiday. I didn’t have work the next day til late, so I figured what the hell, let’s get drunk in the name of a patron saint.

We can cut through some manure here and get to the point where I somehow find myself talking to a pretty attractive young lady. My friends sense what’s happening, they make the smooth exit and let me know where they’re heading, in case I don’t find myself back at her apartment.

She and I leave the bar, both starving for something to eat. The warm, stale air of the bar has been replaced by the chill of mid-March in New York. As we walk towards a Subway, I begin to nervously outline my plan for the evening, any and all cool from the bar now gone in the rush of the city streets.

“So… I was thinking… I don’t know, we’d get something to eat. Somewhere quick. Then, maybe we could go and meet my friends back up for another drink… Or, you know, whatever you want to do. If you don’t want to do that, we can do something else. Really, it’s whatever… I mean…”

Thankfully, she threw me a life jacket.

“Why don’t we get one drink with your friends, and then you can take me back to my apartment and do sex to me.”

I swear to God, that’s what she said. I’ll never, so long as I live, forget the expression, “Do sex to me”.

As you’d imagine, any sexual tension that had been there from the beginning had since evaporated. Things went exactly as she’d planned. We stuffed footlong sandwiches down our gullet (she only finished half of a 6-inch veggie sub… that should’ve been my first clue something was amiss) and headed to the bar. From there we had the requisite (and unnecessary) one drink, then went back to her apartment.

If you’ve been waiting for the part of the story where the title comes in to play, here you go.

The expression ‘like a hot dog in a hallway‘ is a juvenile one, for sure, but it certainly makes its point. Basically, we’re talking about vaginal size here, folks. Just imagine throwing a hot dog, lonely and by itself, down a hallway. All it wants is a little friction. Just something, anything to rub up against. No matter how hard it tries, those walls are seemingly miles away.

Now, personally, I’d never experienced this sensation. I honestly hadn’t ever even met anyone who had, I just remember learning about it freshman year of college and laughing like a crazy person at that image.

As this young lady and I are beginning the proceedings, I notice, shall we say, a much more snug feeling than I’d been previously accustomed to. Unless I’d suddenly become the most well-endowed man on the planet, something wasn’t right here. Throw in the fact that she’d been softly moaning in a way that sounded more like pain than enjoyment.

We stoppped. I asked. She said to keep going, it’s fine (She actually assured me she wasn’t a virgin. I attempted to look for rings around her vaginal walls for proof, but found none).

So, kept going, I did.

Now, keep in mind, this is all happening at night. It’s dark out, we can’t really see one another. Fast forward to the morning, round two, and we’re both staring at one another. All those moans are now accompanied by a face that, honestly, looked like a combination of this and this. If those two faces had a kid, that’s the face I was looking at.

And it was terrifying. I must say, easily the most turned off I’ve ever been sexually in my life. So, we stopped, despite her protests to continue.

After that morning, I never saw her again. It dawned on me that despite her attractiveness and how easy she was to get along with, if the fun stuff wasn’t fun, it wasn’t worth it.

Oh, and by the way, the only possible opposite I could think of is sausage in a thimble. Think that gets the point across.


*I had a friend a few year’s back try to convince me to come to their party at 8 am. I told him, plainly, that there was no chance that would be happening.

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